


folie à deux

by batboycentral



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Detective Comics (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Wayne Whump, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Dick Grayson Whump, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Tim Drake Whump, Trauma Bonding, Unhealthy attachments, everybody whumpt tbh, jason and damian are very side characters iits mostly dick and tim, this is the longest thing i have ever written and ALSO it’s chaptered hehe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24649465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batboycentral/pseuds/batboycentral
Summary: “Dick, what’s going on?”“You know,” Dick said, eyes pleading, “it’s how he is.”Jason shook his head in disbelief. “Dick…” He felt fear prickling at his lungs like asphyxia, and he held Tim just that much closer. “This sounds like a code orange.”Dick and Tim were just following a lead. Now reality's been flipped on its head, and nobody's happy about it.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne
Comments: 59
Kudos: 531





	1. w.a.m.s

**Author's Note:**

> I'D LIKE TO THANK TWILLY FOR THE DESCRIPTION AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH ANYWAY CHECK ME OUT ON TUMBLR @BATBOYCENTRAL THANKS

Dick woke up cold.

The first thing to come to his senses was the hard ground beneath him, concrete like ice against his skin. He kept his eyes shut as the cold seeped into him, unfamiliar and eager to steal his body’s warmth. Bit by bit, the longer he had lain there, he froze, the cold numbing his fingers one by one like hostages. 

Nightwing shivered and was met with his second sensation: pain. Right. He had been on patrol. The haze in his mind did not matter now; he needed to take inventory. He found his jaw aching (likely just a bruise), his ribs definitely broken, and something sharp and searing and wet on his thigh (likely just a stab wound).

Opening his eyes, he found himself in what appeared to be a warehouse—the abandoned hideout he had gone with Red Robin to investigate. Dick’s mental alarm bells went off as memories of the night came back to him.

They had been investigating Scarecrow’s new lair, hoping to break up the operation before it began. It had been getting easier to foil plans ever since the majority of Gotham City’s rogues decided to band together, calling themselves The Originals. It was an act of solidarity against many of the new metas and other outlaws that had been spawning like rabbits; they believed themselves to be of an elevated, elite status. 

The thing they had not considered was a change in alignment amongst some of Batman’s oldest rivals. The Sirens’ morality had been waxing grey for years, and Batman’s on-again-off-again relationship with Catwoman had proved them some form of allies. They were not teammates, but were friendly enough to snitch Original plans to the Bats when they asked.

Nightwing and Red Robin had infiltrated the old factory, and Dick remembered creeping along the metal catwalks before—

Before what? He thought as hard as he could, but every attempt to remember the events of the night came up empty. His head felt foggy, and as he sat up, he felt cold. His hands were shaking, and a swirling sense of panic welled up inside him. 

He spotted Tim on the ground about a meter away and rushed over, wincing at the pain in his ribs. It felt like he had been at a birthday party where _he_ was the piñata. His brother did not look much better, bruised like an unloved peach and bleeding from a gash on his arm. Red Robin’s breathing was fast and erratic, and Dick tried to gently shake him awake.

Tim’s eyes shot open, and he sat up immediately like he had just come out of a nightmare. Red Robin grimaced, gritting his teeth against what Dick could only assume was a matching set of broken ribs. He was panicked and sweaty, much like Dick himself, and he sensed that Tim too felt the impending doom and danger prickling the hairs on their necks. 

“Batman,” Tim breathed. It was like the air in the room had retreated, unwilling to enter Dick’s lungs. He gripped Tim’s shoulders as the vacuum of the room freeze-dried him alive. Something electric and horrible overcame him, activating every nerve in his body and sending him reeling.

The full reality suddenly weighed on him, that their _father_ was looking for them, likely angry for their defection. Bruce could be harsh and cruel, and the same fear that would accompany each failure then surged in his veins now. They were in _trouble_ , and their chances of evading contact with the Batman were slim to none.

Red Robin leaned forward, latching onto Dick in a hug with such warmth it snapped him out of his panic. Despite the ache in his torso, Dick held him just as fiercely, and it was not until the ringing stopped in his ears that he noticed he had been crying. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Dick whispered, and he felt Tim nod next to his head. “It’s going to be okay.” 

“I won’t let him even _touch_ you,” Tim said, voice wet and angry next to his ear. Dick let go of him in favor of wrapping his arm around Tim’s shoulders to support him as they stood. They were on the factory’s floor level—a door was about ten meters away, and they started towards it.

A dark shadow’s movement caught Nightwing’s eye. “Fuck,” he swore underneath his breath, and Tim immediately tensed. He pulled away from Dick’s support to assume a defensive stance, whipping out his collapsible bo staff. “Red, pull back,” Dick pleaded, but Tim had already spotted Bruce and readied himself. 

Batman dropped down in front of them, just barely illuminated by pale shafts of moonlight filtered through dirty windows. He was stiff, something Dick could not identify making him tense. The dark presence itself was enough to send adrenaline rushing through his veins.

Before Bruce could do anything, Dick spoke. “Bruce, please, just don’t,” he plead. He wanted to spare at least Tim from whatever hellfire was about to be rained upon them. Dick could not see his expression. 

He took one step forward, and Red Robin lunged. He seemed to have caught Bruce off guard with his attack—a mistake Dick himself had paid for over and over. Something angry and ugly bubbled inside him as he drew his escrima sticks. Bruce, making the same mistakes he had beaten out of them?

The element of surprise did not last long. Tim was angry, and anger always hindered one’s performance in combat. In one move, Batman disarmed him, prompting Nightwing into the fold. 

He swung, hitting pressure point after pressure point like a perfectly rehearsed dance, Bruce hitting back in all of the expected ways—something was off. Batman had seen how desperate Nightwing had been. He kept leaving himself open. Was he mocking him?

Dick saw an opportunity and thrust his escrima stick toward Bruce. On command, electricity surged, stunning him just long enough for Dick to take Tim and get the hell out of there.

* * *

They managed to finally catch their breath at a safehouse a block away. Dick knew it could not hide them for long, but they needed to tend their wounds and ditch their uniforms. Getting themselves through the window to the apartment was a painful endeavor. Dick’s chest felt like the bottom of a Doritos bag: all crunched up.

Tim grabbed the medkit. Not much could be done for broken ribs besides rest—something they could not afford at the moment. Dick wiped the sweat from his brow. Fight-or-flight still seized his lungs and veins, forcing his body to process at two hundred percent capacity. He tried to relax, but still shook as his younger brother put stitches in his leg.

“Tim,” Dick said, “Do you remember what happened before we woke up?” 

Tim shook his head. “It—I think it has something to do with… y’know, _him._ ” Dick knew, and felt both their shudders at the mention of Bruce. “I don’t know what, but I’m— I—” Tim stuttering was unusual. He was usually articulate, and everything he said, he said with purpose.

“Scared,” Dick finished, and Tim nodded. “Me, too.” Dick bit his lip as he began to patch up Red Robin. He was worried in a way he could not remember ever feeling before. “It’ll be okay.”

“How do you know?” Tim asked, and Dick had to think for a long time. He finished wrapping Tim’s arm. He did not know. Nothing was certain, not even why they were running—Dick just felt this urge to _run_ , that they were in _danger_ —he knew it _had_ to be okay. He could not accept any other outcome.

“I’ll protect us,” Dick finally said. “Let’s get in civvies.” 

They changed into comfortable, nondescript clothes. Dick had finally been feeling a little warmer when a shadow appeared in their window.

Dick’s heart raced, and he was momentarily frozen until the light revealed it was Jason, not Bruce. He breathed a sigh of relief at the same moment that Tim let out a startled wail, staring at Jason in abject terror. His eyes momentarily flitted to Dick for help. 

“Tim, it’s Jay,” Dick said. Tim was not comforted in the slightest. 

Jason coughed. “I just came to ask what’s going on, ‘cause I’m getting, like, a billion calls—”

Tim scrambled back, away from the two of them and pressed against the far wall. He reached for the nearest thing he could grab (a remote) and held it out defensively, chest heaving. Dick gave him a questioning look, to which Tim only gestured to Jason.

“Okay, seriously, what the fuck?” Jason asked, and with each word Tim seemed to grow more and more terrified. Dick slowly approached him, gently taking the remote out of Tim’s hands and guiding him to sit on the couch. Tim’s hands clutched fistfuls of Dick’s shirt. He had never seen his brother so scared. He was pale, trembling, impossibly _small_ as Dick held him to his chest. 

“You’re alright, Tim, breathe,” Dick reminded him, placing his palm on the center of Tim’s back. “It’s just Jay. In and out.” 

Jason fidgeted uncomfortably as they remained there with only shuddery breathing to fill the silence. Tim did not speak, choosing instead to hide his face in Dick’s neck. It was moments like these that reminded him that he and his brothers were not just vigilantes; they were _children_ , putting on a brave face and pretending to be adults—not because they wanted to, but because it was what was _expected_ of them.

Dick sighed. “We’ve had a rough night.” He swallowed thickly. Breaching the topic would upset him, so he had to speak carefully. “Run-in with B.”

“A run-in,” Jason echoed. 

He pressed his lips together in a tight line. “You know how he is,” Dick said, forcing his voice to remain neutral. He had to stay calm. Getting upset would make all of them stressed and he did _not_ need that right now.

“What exactly happened? No offense, but you guys look like shit,” Jason said, crossing his arms. Dick’s brows furrowed in confusion. 

“It was… y’know. _That_ ,” he replied carefully.

Jason raised an eyebrow. “What, using you as a training dummy?” The light smile on Jason’s lips died as he saw the look on Dick’s face. “Dick, what’s going on?”

Dick had thought if any of them would understand the situation, it would have been Jason. He had had it the worst; rebellious, angry youth paired with bitter jealousy and rage had formed something so tumultuous that he had ended up paying the ultimate price. 

“ _You_ know,” Dick said, eyes pleading, “it’s how he _is_.” 

Jason shook his head in disbelief. “Dick…” He felt fear prickling at his lungs like asphyxia, and he held Tim just that much closer. “This sounds like a code orange.”

Dick gaped at him. Batman had instilled in all of them secret emergency procedures should they need them (and need them they did). He furrowed his brow. Jason was insinuating _mind manipulation_ , and Dick knew what fear toxin felt like—this was not it.

The more he thought about it, the twist in his gut became worse. “How—How can you _say_ that? _You?!_ ” Dick’s voice became strangled with tears. Jason frowned at him in confusion. “He— He _beat you to death_ , Jason!” 

Jason opened his mouth to speak, clearly shocked, but said nothing. “He _murdered_ you,” Dick continued, “and he’s constantly a hair away from doing the same to the rest of us!” 

Jason’s face was stony, eyes calculating as he looked Dick up and down. “… Then why is Tim afraid of me and _you’re_ not?” 

Dick had to pause. “You tried to kill him,” he said gingerly.

“I tried to kill you, too,” Jason countered.

He shakes his head. “That was different—”

“—HOW?! _How_ is that different—”

“—I don’t _know,_ okay?! I _don’t know_ ,” Dick cried, exhausted and overwhelmed. “But this _isn’t_ fear toxin. It’s— I’m— I don’t know how to explain it, but I know that this is _real._ Tim—he feels the same thing.”

Jason nodded slowly, putting his palms up in a gesture of concession. “Look, whatever’s going on, it’s _weird_ , and it would benefit us to access a _lab—_ ”

“No!” Dick cut him off abruptly. “No way—”

“ _Listen_ ,” Jason snapped, and Dick felt Tim flinch in his arms. “If Bats tries anything,” he patted his loaded thigh holster, “you know I won’t hesitate.”

Dick sniffled, and rested his chin on the top of Tim’s head. He tapped twice on his shoulder, a nonverbal request for Tim’s opinion, and Tim shakily exhaled in response. He did not want to, but knew they likely had no choice. 

“…Okay,” he finally agreed, and Jason breathed a sigh in relief. “Make sure they’re loaded,” he added. 

Jason nodded, aghast. “Wow. Okay, uh—y’know what, fuck it. We don’t have time to unpack all of _that_. Let’s get a move on.” 


	2. headfirst slide into cooperstown on a bad bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dick and tim visit the cave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI please check me out on tumblr at batboycentral thanks for reading <3

Dick knew Tim was cold.

Ever since they had left the safehouse, he had been shivering. The fleece hoodie he was wearing was warm, but his jeans had holes and Dick had no authority to tell others what to wear. Tim was just too _small_ , too wired and thin to retain heat for himself in the chill of the cave.

They were sitting now on a cot in the medbay, Tim practically attached to Dick. He was sitting in his lap, arms and legs wrapped around him like a monkey, clinging to Dick like he would never be safe and warm again. Dick wanted to cry just from the state of him—Tim was scared, freezing, _vulnerable_ , and all he could do was hold him and pray he felt warmer. Dick had to admit, though, that hugging his brother was comforting in its own way; the same way he had felt hugging his stuffed animal Zitka as a child, he now felt safer.

In his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of a shadow’s movement. His heart hammered in his chest as Jason approached, a dark figure following in his wake. Dick clutched Tim closer to his chest. He knew they could not avoid Bruce in the _Batcave_ , but the anticipation had only made Dick’s anxiety worse.

Panic swelled in his chest. Batman was coming close, _too_ close—

“Stay back!” Dick shouted suddenly, tears pooling in his eyes. His entire body was tense, slightly turned away from them in a protective measure. Tim had become tense, too, and Dick felt a pang of guilt when he heard his brother’s breath shake.

Batman hesitantly kept his distance, and took off the cowl. Deep worry lines etched into his face, making him look so incredibly _old_ that Dick could not recognize him for a moment. He looked genuinely concerned, upset— it was off-putting for a reason he could not place. He felt confused and almost _angry_ that Bruce felt concern for their wellbeing. What had made him start _now_? Did he have a project or mission for them that now could not be completed because of their disappearance?

Jason cleared his throat, the first to speak. “Everyone. Code Orange. You two,” he gestured to Tim and Dick, “just fought Scarecrow, and now you’re terrified of Batman, which, y’know, valid, but unusual.”

“What do you remember?” Bruce asked, and Dick could not help the startled jump that came when he spoke. Bruce pressed his lips in a thin line, clearly biting back something painful that could not be said aloud.

“Not a lot,” Dick admitted nervously. “Neither of us remember even coming into contact with Scarecrow.”

Bruce seemed to consider this. “Status report?”

Dick opened his mouth to automatically rattle off their injuries, but stopped himself. Why did Bruce want to know? Would this be used as leverage against them? If Bruce knew exactly how they were injured, he would know exactly how to make it worse. He shut his mouth and stared at him instead.

“Dick,” he insisted, voice growing impatient. “ _Where are you injured?_ ” Bruce’s face was serious, and Dick was starting to regret his defiance.

Thankfully, Jason cut in. “B, you’re scaring him. No offense, but could you please shut the fuck up and leave the interrogation to the people with emotional tact?” Bruce looked offended, but notedly shut up. Jason turned to Dick. “Head injuries? Bleeding?”

Dick blinked back his shock at Jason’s language and shook his head. “Bleeding’s been taken care of. No concussions.”

“What about little Timberly over here?” He gestured to Tim.

“He—” Dick had to fight to come up with words that would explain Tim’s current state of being. “Um, some kind of shock, I don’t know—He hasn’t spoken a word since you showed up.”

Jason looked a little bit guilty, but nodded. “That—We can deal with that later.” Dick nodded in agreement.

“We need to take blood samples,” Bruce added. A pained whine came from Tim, fearful and on the brink of tears. Dick’s eyes snapped to Bruce, who for a moment looked like his heart had been torn to shreds.

“I can do it,” Jason quickly offered, noticing the thick tension that had settled upon them. Dick felt Tim tense, and shook his head.

“I think he’s still scared, Jay,” Dick said, starting to rub circles on his back.

“Perhaps I may be of assistance.” Alfred’s voice sounded from further down as he approached them. “My apologies, I was gathering the necessary supplies.” Everyone seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, tension partially alleviated by the butler’s arrival.

Dick went first, and was unable to hide his cringe of pain when the needle was inserted. Seeing the blood made him nauseous, so he just closed his eyes instead. Bruce would not stop looking at him, an unreadable expression on his face. Anxiety fluttered in his chest, fractious and unruly.

Next was Tim, who held out one shaky arm, still holding onto Dick for dear life with his other three limbs. Every time the needle touched his arm, Tim jerked back; Alfred ended up needing to maintain a tight grip on his forearm in order to actually get it in. Dick thought his jaw might break from how tight he was clenching his teeth.

Bruce was still watching, fists clenched, and Dick tried to hide his racing heart as Batman turned on his heel and left with Alfred to analyze the results. He had looked upset, and Dick could not figure out why—was he feigning love or hiding anger? What would become of him and his brother? Why was Bruce being so civil, especially when Jason had so blatantly disrespected him? Everyone else was so calm around him, too, and it did not make _sense_ —

“Hey,” Jason said, snapping Dick out of his thoughts. “Stop. You’re gonna go nuts if you think about it too hard. This is a clear cut Code Orange.”

Dick bit his lip. He was not sure how much he wanted to believe that. He was either crazy, or this was the world’s worst case of gaslighting. Something struck him, and he felt the need to suddenly leave, get them anywhere but _here_. “Jason, I don’t—”

“Dick, you told me that _Bruce_ was the one who murdered me with a crowbar,” Jason said.

Dick’s brows knit themselves together in confusion. “That’s how it happened,” he said softly.

“No, Dickie,” Jason said. “I should know. I was there.”

“You’re _lying!_ ” Dick cried, jumping to his feet. Tim let go of him then, subtly positioning himself on Dick’s defense between him and Jason. “I don’t know _why_ , but you’re _helping_ him, and you’re trying to make me feel _crazy!_ ” He wished that he hadn’t gotten up, feeling empty without Tim’s warmth.

Jason pinched the bridge of his nose. “Dude, you are gaslighting _yourself_. I hate it here.”

“No, I’m not! Tim has the same story, so how the fuck would you explain _that?!_ ” Dick was on the verge of tears yet again.

“I don’t know. Let’s ask him.” Jason turned to Tim. “Do you think Bruce is not only an abusive father but a _murderer?_ ”

Tim’s response was the expansion of his collapsible bo staff.

“It’s not impossible for you two to share an altered mental state,” Jason stared at the two of them, brow furrowed in frustration at their stubbornness. “Ever heard of _folie á deux_?”

Before Dick could give an answer, Bruce appeared behind Jason, having had been walking towards them the entire time; Dick chided himself for not paying attention. Tim assumed his defensive fighting stance. Bruce did not move any further, likely avoiding a repeat of earlier.

“Boys,” Bruce began, and he looked tired, the way that senior parents with a backache look; something pained him, and he could do nothing. “I’ve completed the blood analysis.”

Dick held his breath.

“I’ve identified a novel compound present in both of your blood samples. It’s not _exactly_ fear toxin, but looks to be a heavily altered strain,” he explained, and Dick felt something in him die a little.

“It uses fear toxin as a base,” Jason suggests.

“Right,” Bruce nods. “Its purpose seems to be targeting long-term memory rather than inducing the acute fear response. Jason was right in his initial deduction.”

Jason pumped his fist in the air. “FUCK yeah!” Bruce looked horrified. “Not, like, ‘ _Fuck yeah! We’re in this situation!_ ’, I just love hearing you say I’m right.”

Batman all but rolled his eyes.

“Dick and Tim, I need to talk to you,” Bruce said. Dick felt nauseous as he saw Jason go.

The second he turned his full attention to the two of them, Tim initiated combat. Bruce’s clipboard he had been holding clattered onto the ground as Tim moved, brutal and unrelenting, yet fluid and precise. Tim moved like that when he had something to prove, when Bruce required _perfection_.

Dick wanted to move, to stop it, hated the way Tim put all his force into every move, but felt himself glued to the spot, only able to watch. The worst part was how Tim was landing every hit he threw, executing every move just as he was taught, and Bruce was trying to _disengage_ , like he did not even want to fight in the first place.

The two struggled, and it looked for a moment that Tim had the advantage, backing Bruce towards the wall. Something hopeful briefly flared in his chest; that is, until, for the second time that night, Bruce disarmed Tim, who kept fighting anyway. It was almost bizarre, watching Tim go hand to hand with Bruce, who never struck, only blocked.

Bruce grabbed ahold of Tim’s wrists to still him, and time seemed to halt. Tim’s focused, determined look had gone, its place taken by carefully detached neutrality. Dick knew that look—he would wear the same one in the face of inevitable suffering.

“Stop,” Bruce said, and his voice was gentle, gentler than Dick thought he had ever heard before—for a moment he found himself _wanting_ to believe that Bruce would not hurt them.

“We’ll talk,” Dick said impulsively, and something in Bruce’s face relaxed. He let go of Tim’s wrists slowly, making sure he would not strike. Tim did not strike. He remained frozen, his forearms held out as if Bruce still had a grip on them. Dick walked forward, putting an arm around Tim and hugging him to his side. The proximity to Bruce made his heart hammer in his chest, but he refused to let it show as they walked to the large round table near the computer.

Bruce sat, taking his gloves off and rubbing his face tiredly. Dick sat across from him, and Tim climbed into his lap. Dick was silently grateful. It was cold without him. Bruce raised an eyebrow at the (admittedly short) grown teenager unabashedly sitting on his older brother like a child. No doubt he was filing this away for later. Dick just wrapped his arms around Tim and waited for Bruce to speak.

“Tell me everything you remember,” Bruce said. Dick swallowed.

“We had gotten some intel from Selina about Scarecrow’s possible new lair,” he began, and Bruce nodded. “So we went to check it out. After that, it’s hazy. I… remember being hurt, then waking up next to Tim…” Bruce gave him an encouraging look. Dick closed his eyes, the concentration making his head hurt.

Vague, muddy images surfaced in his mind. “I remember being strapped to a chair,” he finally said. “Someone was there. Not Scarecrow, someone else.” Bruce nodded thoughtfully, then focused on Tim, clearly expecting a testimony of some kind and receiving a blank stare in return.

“Tim,” Bruce said. “What do you remember?” Tim remained quiet, and Bruce looked to Dick for an answer.

“He’s been doing that. Just… going quiet,” Dick explained. Like a natural phenomena, he watched gears turn in Bruce’s head until suddenly everything _clicked_. He looked at Dick, a familiar light in his eyes that always made him feel like he was in a detective movie.

“Selective mutism. A response to trauma,” Bruce said, studying Tim’s face.

Dick frowned. “You think Not-Scarecrow gave us _PTSD?_ ”

“An induced trauma response, yes. By the looks of it, they’ve succeeded, too.” When Bruce did not elaborate, Dick gave him a look. “Your sense of memory and perception of reality has been thrown off. Your patterns of reasoning are illogical—that’s what trauma is.”

Dick’s head hurt again. That would mean that it truly was a Code Orange. His entire _reality_ was wrong. A little voice in his head told him that he was stupid for even trusting Bruce’s word anyway, why would he tell you the truth, he _wants_ you to feel crazy—but that was also _illogical_ , and it proved Bruce _right_ , and _goddamn did Dick have a headache_.

“I remember things, though. Plus, Tim,” Dick argued halfheartedly.

“I’ll need to do more investigating to find out specifics. We can’t know if Tim’s story completely lines up until he gives a testimony,” Bruce said, and Dick deflated a little. “In the meantime…” Bruce stood, so the two boys did, too. He reached his hand up to pat Dick’s shoulder. Dick flinched, hard, and Bruce pulled it back, a subtle sadness written in his eyes. “Take care of each other. Get some rest, it’s been a long night.”

Dick nodded gratefully, and took Tim’s hand to lead them upstairs, but his brother remained in front of Bruce. Dick became nervous. Did they not have permission? He looked to Bruce, eyes asking the same question, and Bruce awkwardly waved them on.

That seemed to be good enough for Tim, and the two traipsed up the stairs to their rooms.

When they reached the hallway, they both stopped in the middle, glancing at each other nervously. Dick suspected they were thinking the same thing—they did not want to spend the night alone, worrying for the safety of the other. He gave a tiny nod of his head to Tim, who came to his side at once.

They silently decided on Dick’s room, because it had the fluffier comforter (something _everyone_ knew), and settled in. Tim was on his side with his back to Dick, who was on his stomach. It was quiet, the sounds of the night filling the air, clouded with worry for the uncertain future.

“Do you believe him?” Tim asked, and the sound of his voice eased some of Dick’s nerves. Tim was talking, and talking meant he was okay. As for the question itself, Dick had to think.

“I don’t know,” Dick settled on. “I want to.” Tim did not say anything, but Dick knew he was in agreement. They would always want to believe in Bruce. He was their mentor, coach, _dad,_ and all any of them had ever hoped for was his approval, his acceptance, his _love_. Something ugly in Dick’s gut told him it was a pipe dream. He wanted to believe that that ugly something was wrong, that all of his doubt was just a huge mistake brought on by a supervillain he could not stop. Dick would readily accept the consequences of that mistake if it meant none of this was real.

The consequences. He thought about how defensive Tim was of him, how ready he was to jump into danger to protect him. Tim was constantly crumbling, his spirit shoved down where no one could reach and no one could hear. He did not deserve any of this—but considering the alternative it was the better option. Tim crumbled, but Dick could pick him back up. He could be there. He _would_ be there.

“You don’t have to fight all of this yourself, Tim,” Dick said after a long moment of silence.

Tim paused. “What am I here for if not to fight?” It broke Dick’s heart to hear that he thought of himself that way; he was worth so much more.

“This is my battle, too,” Dick said. “I’m always going to protect you.” He heard Tim sniffle.

Dick reached his hand up and began tracing letters on Tim’s back—something he did with all of his brothers (and sister) to help them relax. It was a favorite game to help each other fall asleep.

D-O-G. “D… O… G. Dog,” Tim spoke the letters out loud as he traced them. He had always been quite good at it.

T-E-N-T. “T… F—wait, no. _E_ … N… T. Tent. Give me a hard one,” he said, and Dick smiled.

R-A-T— “R. A. T. Rat?! I said _hard!”_ Tim interrupted.

“Ex _cuse_ me, I’m not finished spelling!” Dick said playfully. “I’m gonna start over.”

R-A-T-A-T-O-U-I-L-L-E. “R. A. T. A? T… O…? U… Is it Ratatouille?!” Dick beamed proudly.

He pulled his brother close, already falling asleep, knowing that they were safe, at least for now.


	3. 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bruce, damian, and tim weigh in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for mild desc of torture anyway thanks for reading find me at batboycentral on Tumblr and like this video for an extra greeting

Meanwhile, in another part of Gotham City…

While his children slept soundly, Batman had stalked the city streets, fighting bitter wind chill and the coming dawn. He had only a few hours until daylight, but it was imperative he complete his objective _tonight._

Someone had hurt his boys.

Seeing them, the mistrust in their eyes, the _fear_ and _failure_ that was not unfamiliar—it had been overwhelming, driving him to either go work off the steam or go crazy.

He had failed his boys, _again_. The thought rattled around in Bruce’s mind as he swung building to building. They had been made to believe that he was their enemy, and it broke his heart, because in many ways it was true—that Bruce had done them wrong, hurt them, put them in danger—but to see his worst nightmare live and breathe?

It was almost like Jason. Almost. Not quite, but it came close.

Bruce arrived at the abandoned factory. They had received bad intel, which meant it was likely targeted. There were no signs of struggle at any of the entrances, and there was no blood where he had found them. That could only mean one thing—a goddamn _secondary location_. He grappled up to the catwalks.

He had been lucky that whoever did this was an idiot. One of the henchmen had left a cell phone behind that Batman collected and unlocked quickly. He found it belonged to a large, red-faced blonde man named Herbert Waltz. The address he found was halfway across the city, but Bruce could spare no expense. These were his _children_ , and the idea that he would purposefully hurt them made him sick to his stomach.

On his way, he rang Selina through his cowl. It took three rings, but she picked up, sounding surprised to hear from him. “Bruce? Do you _know_ what time it is?”

Frankly, he did not care, but dared not to say so; he needed information, which meant he needed to be nice. “Selina.”

“Please don’t tell me this is a house call,” she groaned, and Bruce grimaced. He was asking for something worse than sex at such an hour— _work._

“I need a favor. Nightwing got bad intel about Scarecrow’s new hideout,” he said.

Bruce knew she would understand. “So you want me to compile a dossier on everything he’s been up to for the last thirty days?”

“I’d prefer a PDF,” he replied, and heard her groan over the line. “They hurt my boys, Selina.”

There was a pause. “You’re lucky I like you,” Selina sighed, and he vowed to make it up to her sometime soon.

“Thank you,” Bruce said, and hung up. He had arrived at the address; it was a shoddy apartment typical of the average midtown Gotham citizen, making it easy to pry the window open.

No one appeared to be home. Bruce rummaged around, finding mostly old receipts and paperwork, until he finds a handwritten note underneath a coaster.

‘STRANGE THURSDAY NIGHT! BUY GLOVES’

The incident had happened Thursday night (it was now technically Friday morning). Bruce studied the note. Clearly, he had forgotten to buy gloves. _Strange_. It could mean several things. He thought back briefly to the roster of Gotham rogues that had recently banded together.

Dr. Hugo Strange was on the list; a brilliant psychologist turned a little bit nuts. It was weird how many rogues had that backstory. Bruce made a mental note to never let his kids become psych majors.

Why would Strange pretend to be Scarecrow? Why would he carry out such a risky move against the Bat, why now? Bruce figured his questions would be better answered after some sleep and Selina’s PDF.

Much, much later in the day, Damian opened the door to Dick’s room with the intention of waking him up—he had tried earlier and was shooed away by Alfred. Now he had been sent, given that it was 11:45 and his brother needed to eat.

Damian met eyes with Tim, who had been awake and sitting on the side of the bed. For a split second, Tim had looked frightened to see him, as if Damian was still his worst self, the one who had threatened Tim’s life more than twice and stolen his spot in the cave. The look was gone in a heartbeat, but Damian could not help the guilt that pooled in his stomach.

“Timothy,” he said, clearing his throat. Tim stared back at him. The case files had mentioned his silence, but to actually _see_ it was unnerving. Damian used to wish he would shut up forever. He briefly wondered if there was a God, and if there was, he wondered why they chose to place him in the middle of a kitschy teen movie.

He took a step forward into the room; this was _Dick’s_ room, and he was not here for Tim. Damian’s entrance had Tim on his feet immediately. It was awkward and tense, the way it had been a year ago—they had made long strides since then, and it frustrated him to think it was about to be all for nothing.

“It’s nearly noon,” he said primly. “Pennyworth has prepared lunch. Attendance is compulsory.”

Tim watched Damian leave, guilt and shame enveloping him like heavy blankets. He was not sure how to feel—about Damian or Jason or even Bruce. He had been following Dick’s judgement, yet could not help but feel that his brother was being naïve. Dick wanted to trust them so easily. He let them take their blood. He was friendly with _Jason_.

He had been coping rather well: as in, not coping at all. Tim often found himself stuck in a loop of his own thoughts, forcing him into silence, forcing him to fight, forcing him to _freeze_ and the only respite he got was spent crying like a child. Tim hated himself for it, hated how good it felt to be held and coddled, how _relieved_ he felt every time he was touched.

It was everything he had ever wanted. It was a waking nightmare.

Tim did not believe in Bruce like Dick did. It was quite complicated to be a lie, but he knew Bruce was a complicated person, and that he would go to the extent he has. His throat felt like ash. Tim sat back down where he had been.

The dip in the mattress had woken Dick up. Tim did not say anything; he could not, when everything in his body screamed for him to _just keep your damn mouth shut, Timothy Jackson_. He thought of Bruce, of crushing pressure, failed expectations, his broken ribs.

He had not noticed Dick had sat up until he felt a hand on his shoulder. Tim did not turn around. He thought of Jason, hands wrapped around his neck, Damian, knives in his chest, Bruce, constant disappointment, loneliness, Mom and Dad—

“Pobrecita,” Dick’s voice cut through his thoughts. Tim did not know when he had sat next to him, or when he had started crying. He wiped at his eyes. “It’s okay to cry,” Dick said. Tim wanted to tell him that he was _wrong_ , that he did not deserve to be _cared_ for, but all that came out was choked sobs until he was truly breaking down right then and there. He felt Dick rubbing circles on his back, and he cried harder.

“Have we been like this our whole lives?” Dick asked once he was a little calmer. Tim looked up at him, a questioning look on his face. “I can’t remember a time we weren’t like this,” he said. “But I also can’t remember a time we _were_ like this.”

Tim contemplated this. They had been inseparable for the past twelve hours, an unspoken need and attachment ingrained in them. When he thought about it, his mind felt spotty. He could not _remember_ anything, only see images, feel vague feelings—he frowned.

“Do you feel hazy, too?” Dick asked, and Tim nodded. Dick met his eyes with a worried look. “I think you should give Bruce a chance.” Tim looked away and tried not to let his bitterness show.

_‘It’s lunchtime’_ , Tim signed, suddenly grateful for Cass being in the family (and sad she was in Hong Kong). _‘Go downstairs.’_ Dick nodded, but he looked sad, and Tim could not figure out why.

Lunch was awkward. Dick, Jason, and Damian got along well, but Tim did not participate. Damian kept giving him unreadable looks. He felt sick to his stomach.

Tim had gotten used to Jason and Damian’s presence, but he still felt uncomfortable spending so much time with them; for Dick’s sake, he had agreed to hanging around. They were situated in the living room, Tim next to Dick on the couch, and Jason flipped through channels to find a movie.

“Why are we using _cable_ to find a movie?” Dick asked. They momentarily stopped on a channel playing _Emperor’s New Groove_. “No, not this one.” Jason gasped in fake betrayal.

Damian nodded in agreement. “We own a multitude of DVDs and, need I remind you, have _internet?_ ”

“I’m just saying, paying for cable _and_ Netflix _and_ Hulu and shit is fuck-you money!” Jason protested. They stopped again on a channel playing _A Clockwork Orange_ , and Tim was captivated by the scene before him.

A young man was strapped to a chair, forced to watch a series of violent clips and images. His eyes were pried open and his head was forced to be still so he could not look away from the onslaught of grotesque material. The man screamed, and Tim’s eyes were wide as sick realization struck him.

_He was in a dark room, alone, strapped to a chair. An hour ago they had injected something into his neck; Tim could not remember what. A blinding screen before him played images of Batman. A henchman in his peripheral swung his bat again and he heard the sickly crack of bone. Nausea and pain flooded his senses; all he could do was watch the image of his adopted father in front of him._

When he grabbed Dick’s shoulder, the channel had already been switched—they had only remained for a second or so, and everyone else had moved on. Tim shook Dick’s shoulder, grabbing his attention, then gesturing to the television.

“What is he doing?” Jason asks.

Dick furrowed his brows in concentration. “I think there was something on one of the channels. Go back.”

“It was just an old movie,” Damian said.

They flipped back through the previous channels and Tim pointed to what he had seen. He heard Dick’s breath hitch next to him. “Oh my _God,_ ” he breathed, and he sounded horrified, but Tim knew it was because he understood. “You’re right—” Dick’s voice broke, and the television was abruptly shut off.

“Is that what happened?” Damian asked, alarmed.

“It—Holy shit,” Dick said, taking a moment to breathe and hugging Tim a little tighter. “What Bruce found in our blood samples, that compound—it was supposed to trigger a traumatic response. They—They fucked with our entire _reality_.”

“Isn’t that good, then?” Damian asked, silently hopeful. “We know its purpose and cause, so we can develop and administer an antidote.”

Dick gave him a sad look, and Jason’s voice was somber as he spoke. “It doesn’t work like that. It’s not like fear toxin where it can just wear off,” he said, looking at the crumpled forms of his brothers on the couch. “This kind of damage is long-lasting.”

Tim shared a look with Dick. What _were_ they going to do? Tim’s best guess was therapy, but the thought alone made him nauseous.

“Impossible,” Damian said stiffly. “I do not accept this.”

Dick looked at him sadly. “Dami, you know how the League hurt you?” He gave a tiny nod. “That stuff stays with you.”

“It does not hurt as much now,” Damian replied, frowning. Tim knew he wanted to believe it could be solved easily, and he felt a pang of longing in his chest telling him to protect the hope Damian still had; he was, after all, still a child, just like the rest of them. It was easy to forget.

“You’re working through it,” Dick nodded, “But it takes time. You can’t just get rid of it like that,” he said, snapping his fingers for emphasis.

Damian looked crestfallen, and although he could not remember the time before this happened, Tim knew from the quiet sorrow and jealousy in his eyes that something had been irreparably broken between them. They had left that night alive, but the people they had been had died, and it hurt all the same.


	4. she's my winona

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading yall

That night after his patrol, Batman met Catwoman on the rooftop of their favorite Chinese place.

Selina looked much more refreshed than Bruce had expected her to—after all, he _had_ called her at four AM. She was in full gear, her features striking from the lights of the city. Bruce decided that whatever less-than-legal activities she tangled herself in tonight would be left alone.

Selina had prepared the requested information, taken from the Originals without fight as they had no reason to believe she would betray them. She had publicly expressed her disdain for the Bat quite recently after he had arrested her. Bruce had made up for it privately.

“Originals are kind of a shitshow,” Selina said, handing over a small USB. “Looks like Scarecrow and Strange are feuding. Who’s more effective, male ego, all of that.”

Bruce’s jaw clenched. If his suspicions were confirmed, it would a dark night in Gotham; messing with Batman’s proteges was a guaranteed act of war. “Thank you, Catwoman,” he said finally. “I’m going to find him.”

“Anytime,” Selina said. She just liked to see him agitated—he was seething as he grappled off of the roof, en route to the cave to analyze the files.

He found that she had been right; Scarecrow had hardly been active in the area. Transcripts of meetings revealed periods of infighting, the same debate over and over; acute fear versus long-term trauma. Bruce grew angrier with every word he read. Strange experimented on his _children_ to prove a _point_?

The answer to the question in hand, of course, was neither. Sustainable power could not be attained through fear: it was, admittedly, the biggest failure of Batman’s mission. He more often than not played whack-a-mole with Gotham’s crime.

The files were not detailed, but Bruce could easily conceptualize what Strange had done. The subjects (his _boys_ , Bruce reminded himself, and it took everything in him to keep reading and not make Hugo Strange gargle teeth) were shown material while being provided stimulus. The toxin itself was a catalyst, solidifying the change in brain activity and thus giving a traumatic response.

It seemed that the responses varied based on each person—Dick and Tim were neither the first nor only subjects—depending on that person’s organic brain chemistry and personal history. It was common, it seemed, for a subject to become convinced they were living their worst nightmare associated with what they had been shown. Reading that had made Bruce feel sick to his stomach. Dick and Tim both now believed he was the cruelest version of himself; different for each, making it all the worse.

Bruce sent a message to Dinah, asking if she would sit with Dick and Tim each. He had noticed how attached they had been to each other, so he requested they be seen separately. It was likely that they had immediately trauma bonded after—they had needed to latch on to something for comfort. Too much attachment could lead to anxiety and codependence.

He also discovered that they had had tiny mics implanted somewhere on their skull. The transmissions were not functional. They had been blocked since nearly the beginning; Strange’s software was far too weak for the Batcomputer’s filters. All that was needed was to remove the hardware—much easier said than done.

It had not been hard to get the two back into the cave for the procedure. It did, however, put them on edge; Tim especially looked as if he was expecting a fight, weapon already drawn as Bruce approached them in the medbay.

“Boys,” he said, and hated how nervous Dick looked when he spoke. “The case has been, in general, closed. I believe we know everything.” His oldest stared up at him hopefully. Tim remained in position in front of his brother, expression stony and guarded.

“The operation was orchestrated by Dr. Hugo Strange, notorious psychologist and Gotham rogue,” he began, and their eyes held a gleam of recognition and understanding. “He was settling a score by conducting experiments on traumatic experiences.”

“So the toxin has a cure?” Dick asked.

It broke Bruce’s heart that he could not say yes. “Unfortunately, no,” he said, and he watched his son’s face fall. “It is recoverable, but it will take time. In the meantime—” he gestured to the delicate medical tools on the tray next to him, “You kids need to get debugged. Strange planted mics. They’re dormant for now, but they need to come out.”

Tim immediately falls into a fighting stance, glaring ferociously at Bruce. Bruce raised his eyebrows at his son. He felt guilty, hopeless, _tired_ , and as much as he did not want to scare them, he could not allow himself to enable Tim’s mistrust.

“Tim, drop your staff. You’re going first,” Bruce said firmly, and Tim complied immediately, dropping his weapon and sitting on the cot next to him. He was oddly robotic and tense, making Dick look like he was about to combust from anxiety. 

Bruce knew the mics were on their heads, but not specifically where—he would have to search. He brought his hands up to Tim’s face, who flinched, hard, jerking his head back and away. Bruce held up his hands in a gesture of peace, then reached for Tim’s head again.

Tim jerked back, his whole body startling, and Bruce heard sounds of distress from Dick. Bruce went ahead and touched his hairline, but Tim squirmed from his touch once again. He tried not to let his frustration show, as he knew it would only escalate the situation. Tim’s defiant expression communicated a desire for control; it was something Bruce saw often in abused children. He did not recognize that he was no longer in danger, believing himself to be at Bruce’s mercy, waiting for him to strike at any moment— and the anticipation was too much for him to wait any longer.

A few feet away, Dick hovered, buzzing with a nervous energy that was beginning to make _Bruce_ feel stressed. He looked down at Tim with a firm expression. “Tim, stop. You’re stressing out your brother.”

Tim snarled at him, and Bruce knew what he was aiming for—he would not use any kind of force. He had to be careful how he responded, but there was no doubt in his mind about it; Bruce was Tim’s father, not to mention _Batman_. He and Tim engaged in an intense staring contest for several moments before clearing his throat and turning his expression neutral.

“Dick, sit down,” he said, and the ambivalence on Tim’s face melted away, fear and distress taking its place. He sat up straighter, looking up at Bruce with pleading eyes. “Are you ready?” he asked gently. In an instant, Tim became perfectly still, and Bruce began carding his hands through his hair with little resistance.

He found the bug—a little metal dot behind Tim’s ear— and parted his hair so he could pry it out. The mic was very securely attached with tiny metal legs embedded in his son’s skull, and Bruce found he could not simply scrape it off. He picked up his pair of tweezers, gently bending the small, sharp objects until he was able to pluck it out.

Tim had not made a sound throughout the process, and Bruce was silently grateful. Tim was not hurt, and he was not bleeding. Bruce turned to Dick, who looked nervous but relieved, Tim’s acceptance of the situation seeming to deescalate the tension in the room.

As he worked on removing Dick’s bug, Bruce spoke. “You two will be seeing Dinah tomorrow.” Dick made a face—perhaps it hurt more than Tim had let on. “Separately.” The tension had not been as alleviated as it had seemed, as it returned the instant he had uttered the phrase. Dick tensed, and the air grew stale.

There was a long moment of silence. “Why?” Dick finally asked. “What will he be doing when I’m in there?”

“You have separate psyches, and therefore require separate treatment. Codependence is unhealthy,” Bruce replied, careful not to sound forceful. He pulled the bug out, and Dick’s eyes met his, full of conflict and worry. He looked back at Tim, who seemed not to react—most likely filing this away as another means of punishment.

Bruce looked at the two of them solemnly, then gestured that they were free to go. He wished he could have shielded them from this—all the trauma they had had before had become so much worse and it was his fault. Guilt and sorrow rocked his very core as he watched his sons rush to each other’s side and flee his presence.

He was going doctor hunting later that night.

Tim was sitting with Dick and Jason in the wake of their meeting with Bruce, playing Uno on the floor. He had not reacted to Bruce’s attempts to drive a wedge between him and Dick, and neither would he—he knew Bruce _wanted_ to see him miserable. Truthfully, his insides felt like sludge, tainted with the dread of his inevitable loneliness, and his heart ached every time Dick threw him a worried glance. He no longer felt tense, just numb (though he was still wary of Jason).

He should have known that his comfort would not last. It would hurt more, he thought, to accept the supposed reality Bruce had convinced his brother of, to accept _help_ for something he knew did not really exist.

“I want to go,” Dick said. “But I’m… _nervous_. I don’t want to get separated. What if something happens?”

Jason shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. He can handle himself for that period of time, thought. So can you. You just have attachment anxiety,” he said, and Tim played a draw four. “What color?”

Tim held up an ASL ‘R’ for red, but fear and regret seized his chest as a deafening yell erupted from his brothers—every alarm in his head going off at once, he felt _cold_ , he had to get out, it had finally started, he was lunch meat now, Bruce would come for him any second, he had to hide—

He scrambled away as fast as he could, throwing himself into the nearest bathroom and locking the door. A small table housing various soaps and tiny plants sat across from the toilet; Tim yanked and shoved it in front of the door, breathing wildly. He was in danger, and though he had his staff he did not know how long he could last against four of them.

Tim bitterly regretted allowing himself to become attached to Dick. He was not sure if Dick had been acting this whole time—was he, too, in on something Tim was not? Was Dick’s care and comfort merely a ploy to hit him while he was weak? He could not help but feel betrayed. For the first time in a while, Tim felt _alone_ , and it was crushing him.

A knock sounded, and Tim scrambled back to the far wall opposite the door. Someone behind it was talking, likely to him, but he could not understand their words. He could not breathe, and was minutely aware that he was crying. Each sob strangled him as he shakily extended his bo staff for what felt like the millionth time.

The doorknob rattled, and he knew someone was trying to open it. He leaned forward to listen to the voices on the other side.

“—what’s going on, he just ran away,” he heard Dick say. “We have to go in there.”

“He might just need time alone,” came Jason’s voice.

“But he _needs_ me, Jay—”

“Do you really want him to be so dependent on you?”

It was quiet then, and although Tim knew it had been coming all along, he burst into a fresh round of tears. His brother _didn’t_ want him, and all of his worst fears were true; they were throwing him to the wolves, they thought he was _crazy_ , he was alone.

He remained that way for a long time, sitting on the cold tile floor with his staff in his hands, silence permeating every fiber of his being save for his own wet and shaky breaths. Tim’s mind was clouded by the sick panic that had a vice grip on his throat—he hardly noticed when the door clicked open.

The table made a loud scuffing sound as the door moved it to the side, and Tim’s head snapped up. To his horror, _Bruce_ was coming in. He held his staff out in defense, trembling.

Bruce crossed the threshold between them, gently pushing away his staff and sitting down next to him. He felt nauseous. Bruce’s face looked gentle, like he did not care that Tim was even crying—in fact, he looked _sad_ , and for a moment, Tim understood why Dick had chosen to trust him. The Bruce in front of him was not the Bruce in his head, that much was true. Bruce as he knew it would have ground him to a pulp if he had seen Tim cry; now, he was just someone’s father.

“You’re expecting me to hit you. To hurt you,” Bruce said, breaking the silence, and Tim eyed him suspiciously. Of course he was. Every bone in his body screamed that he was in _trouble,_ that this was _dangerous_ —he tensed, knowing that Bruce would likely try to deny his claims.

To his surprise, he did not. “I’m not here to try and persuade you I’m a saint,” Bruce said, and something stirred in Tim’s stomach. “But I am… I’m your _dad_ , and it’s my _job_ to protect you.” Tim looked him up and down. He could not understand what he was experiencing. Bruce would never say that, would he?

“Nobody in this house will hurt you, because I refuse to allow it,” he continued. Tim could not be sure how honest Bruce was being. Jason and Damian lived here, and that was enough to raise red flags for him.

Bruce seemed to sense his apprehension. “Your brothers have made mistakes,” he began slowly, and Tim watched him with a frightened curiosity. “They have learned and grown. Should they make those mistakes again, there are consequences.” He was saying he would discipline his own children if they hurt Tim. It felt _backwards_ and foreign in a way that was almost inviting.

He looked solemn, and if Tim had not known any better, he would have thought Bruce looked _guilty_. “I have hurt you,” he said, and Tim held his breath. “I cannot promise I will not hurt you in the future.” Tim gave a tiny nod of understanding. It would be unrealistic for anyone to promise such a thing. Whether or not Bruce intended to, Tim did not know.

“But I will _always_ care about you, above all things. You and your brothers and sister are my _world,_ ” he said quietly. The care, the love in his voice was so _real_ that Tim could not help the sharp breath he took in. A feeling washed over him that he could not remember feeling before, and it felt _good,_ even as he reminded himself that Bruce meant everyone else, and not him—some tiny part of him pretended for the moment that it _was_ for him, and Tim felt his heart ache.

“I wish I had never put any of you in danger in the first place,” Bruce said, and Tim saw his glassy eyes, the way he looked at him, and realized he had felt this way the entire time, that Bruce was not putting on an act to fool him into vulnerability but baring his heart to his sons as he grieved his wrongdoings.

Hope and shame and longing all flooded his chest at once, making a strange fruit punch right there in his lungs. He suddenly realized he wanted Dick to be right, he wanted _Bruce_ to be right, that this was all just a nightmare—Tim had to know, had to be _sure_ that Bruce meant what he hoped he meant.

“Even me?” Tim asked, finding his voice for the first time in what felt like ages. It was terse and sandpapery, but Bruce’s face filled with emotion from just the sound of it.

There was a moment of silence; he was clearly shocked, and Tim was starting to regret the risk he had taken when Bruce answered. “ _Especially_ you, Tim,” he said, and Tim felt like he was going to cry all over again. “Being in this life has cost you so much.”

“I don’t regret taking you in. I could _never_.” A tear fell down Bruce’s cheek. “I regret what I put you through.” He paused. “Let me regain your trust.”

Tim bit his lip. Despite what his mind was telling him, he knew that he wanted to. He understood why Dick had such faith in Bruce; it was impossible to fake this level of emotion. Tim had felt it in the air when Bruce whispered. He nodded, slowly, and suddenly felt antsy, inching forward slightly.

Bruce held his arm out for Tim to come to him, and he did, at first hesitantly, then pressed himself against his side, basking in the warmth and comfort it provided. Tim shuddered; it was powerful, and he felt he was playing with fire. It would be awful to be wrong—but it felt so good, so _right_ that he simply let himself be held by Bruce, leaning into him to soak up the affection.

A weight lifted off of Tim’s chest. He had been so against them, so unwilling to accept their truth so as to spare himself the grief that would come later; Tim was glad, now, that he had taken this risk, because after he had had that thought, Bruce pressed a kiss onto the crown of Tim’s head, and he finally breathed a sigh of relief.


End file.
